


Don't Call Me Bucky

by shannonissatan



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 07:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3969479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannonissatan/pseuds/shannonissatan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony doesn't know what to think when a brainwashed assassin shows up in his shop, asking for his help. Alternate version of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2459465">Call Me Bucky</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Call Me Bucky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqen_hgar/gifts).



Tony woke up when he felt cold metal on the back of his neck.

His first instinct was a huge gasp and immediately reaching for whatever was touching him (because if it was that goddamned idiot of a robot who kept breaking his coffee maker, he swore he was going to disassemble him for good this time), but whatever it was had disappeared by the time his hand reached his skin. He looked around the shop, where he'd fallen asleep tinkering again, but the dim red and blue lights didn't reveal much.

“Jarvis, turn the lights on,” he said quietly, dropping his safety glasses on the table and wiping a bit of drool off of his cheek. The fluorescent bulbs flickered to life and everything was in its place, but something still seemed... Off. Tony stood up and tried to examine things more carefully. He spun on his heels and straightened up instantly when he heard a loud _clunk_ behind him.

In the darkest corner of the room, a figure stepped out of the shadows—a man at least twice Tony's size, wearing combat boots, dirty black jeans, and a black sweater now stood before him, hiding under his hood.

“How'd you get in here?” Why that was the first thing Tony managed to say, he didn't know, but there was no response to his question. The man's hands were in the pocket of his hoodie, and Tony was more than a little panicked he might have a gun in there, too, so he tried slowly backing away.

“I need your help,” the man in the shadows admitted after Tony had retreated a few feet. His hands moved in his pockets as he stepped forward and Tony reached blindly for something, anything, to defend himself with. He ended up grabbing a three-inch-long flathead screwdriver—wow, that would sure help fend off the ninja who could probably just step on him. Still, he held it up in front of himself like a weapon.

“ _Sir, I—”_

“Not now, Jarvis,” Tony quipped angrily at his computer. Then, directed at the stranger, “What do you need my help for?”

The man in the corner slowly took one hand from his pocket, and Tony's heart skipped a beat when he saw something silvery glint in the bright lights. He tried to stay still, waiting for the guy to make his move.

In one swift movement, the stranger in the corner pulled his sweater over his head and dropped it on the floor and  _holy shit, was that really...?_

“The Winter Soldier,” Tony blurted out. The man in the corner, now looking slightly uncomfortable without the coverage his shirt had offered, scowled.

“Don't call me that,” he grumbled. “I don't...” He seemed to have trouble finishing the sentence, like he didn't know what the right words were. “I don't want to be him anymore.”

Tony's stance loosened, and he lowered his screwdriver slightly. Helplessly, the man gestured vaguely to his metal arm.

“The plates keep getting stuck,” he mumbled, “and I think something's jammed in one of the joints.”

“That's why you're here?” Tony asked incredulously. “You want me to fix your robo-arm?” The Soldier grunted in response.

“Why me? Why not go back to your buddies at HYDRA; they seem to know how to put you back together pretty well.” The man in the corner flinched very slightly when Tony mentioned the parasitic organization. What, was he afraid of them now?

“They'll kill me if I go back,” he stated blankly. “I defected. I'm a malfunctioning weapon. I'm a threat to them, and they neutralize threats.”

“Why wouldn't they just hit your reset button?” Tony had read (well, actually, had Jarvis summarize and then read to him) most of the files Romanoff had released, and he remembered how HYDRA had kept their master assassin in check. Mind wandering, he wondered if maybe there were specs for the arm there, too.

“They tried. I defected again. They know it isn't working anymore and their next best option is to terminate the program.” Tony translated that as “firing squad and a cremation oven.”

“According to what I've read, you're _my_ best option,” he continued. “Intelligent, well-equipped, resourceful, and maybe reckless enough to help the man who tried to kill half of your team at some point or another.”

That was a sore spot for Tony—nobody messed with his Avengers and got away with it except for him, thank you very much. “What if I don't help you?” he asked defensively. “What if I'm not as 'reckless' as you're hoping?”

The assassin clenched his good fist reflexively and, after what seemed to be a painful internal struggle, relaxed his muscles. “I leave you untouched, with knowledge of my weakness and photographic evidence that I was here,” he decided after a few moments of silence. He looked up and eyed one of the cameras in the corner of the shop, staring at the red light for a moment before looking back to Tony.

“Are you surrendering?” Finally, Tony dropped his arm and shoved the screwdriver in one of his pockets. He took a step forward, arms crossed protectively over the thick layer of scar tissue on his chest.

The Soldier sighed. It sounded far too human for someone so emotionless. “I...” He sounded like he was trying to find the words, like he was scared of them, somehow. “I need someone I can trust,” he admitted finally. “I need someone to trust me.”

“That's going to take some work, Robocop,” Tony informed him. The man nodded in acknowledgement. Tony gave him a once-over, assessing his condition—he was dirty, battered, in obvious pain, and he wore a look close to defeat. Tony nodded to himself.

“I'll do what I can,” he agreed. The man in the corner relaxed slightly, and Tony went to work.

“Jarvis, pull up any files we've got on this guy,” he requested, grabbing one of his tablets from a nearby workbench. A few dozen folders appeared on the screen as he gestured for the man to come closer. He moved silently, and Tony realized that the loud noise he had made before was intentional, to get Tony's attention.

“ _Sir, are you sure this is a good idea?”_ Jarvis asked as Tony looked through a file containing the basic stats of HYDRA's weaponized footsoldier.

“Absolutely not,” Tony admitted. He grabbed a chair and dragged it over, then motioned for the Soldier to sit in it. “Scan his arm,” he told the computer. “I need to know how it works before I can start fixing it.”

Tony stopped in his tracks, watching as the man in front of him sat obediently still while a beam of light traced his metal arm. “What should I call you?” he asked suddenly, and it took a moment before the assassin realized Tony was talking to him.

“I...” He trailed off, and Tony could tell he was trying to remember something. “My name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he managed. Recited might have been a closer word, actually, like he'd been practising the sentence over and again in his head. Tony looked at the file in his hand—that was the name listed at the beginning of the first document, a scan of some paperwork from the forties, but it was only used a handful of times. In the newer logs, he was referred to only as the “Winter Soldier,” or simply “the asset.”

“Is that what you want me to call you?” Tony asked. “James?”

He thought for a moment. “For now,” he decided. He had no further comment on the matter, but Tony could tell he was still thinking. They both stayed quiet, Stark buried in the tiny flicker of glee that came from working with new tech and Barnes trying to wrap his head around the memories—both real and artificial—that were swimming through his still-foggy mind.

Tony tapped and pinched and blew apart the virtual schematic of the arm he now had, trying to figure out which parts were out of place. It was more difficult than it seemed; there was no clear definition of where flesh and bone gave way to gears and plates, and the way the scanner was calibrated only let Tony see the man-made parts of the bionic limb. He might need help on this.

“How bad is it?” Tony asked. The Soldier—James, Stark reminded himself—didn't answer. Tony gave him a light shove on his right shoulder in an attempt to get his attention. He regretted the action as soon as he'd done it.

In one easy step, James stood up, grabbed a handful of Tony's shirt, and pinned them together with his chest against Tony's back. His right arm held the man in place while the other used a dislodged piece of metal sticking out of his palm as a makeshift blade against his neck.

“Woah there, Iron Giant,” Tony muttered, dropping his tablet and holding his hands up in surrender. “Not a threat; just trying to talk.” He was grateful for the hesitation his words caused, as one more second might have resulted in a painful death.

“Could you put me down please?” Tony asked. James breathed heavily before dropping his arms. Tony scrambled five feet away, shoulders tense and ready to call out for one of his backup weapons. The entire ordeal was too short for Vine, yet both men were breathing hard and scared out of their wits.

“I'm sorry,” James whispered, barely loud enough to hear. “I shouldn't—I—This was a bad idea,” he stuttered. “I should never have come here.”

“Bullshit,” Tony called. The immediate rejection of his statement caught James off guard, and he looked up curiously.

“You managed to override your brain wipe twice and come to the enemy for help,” Tony explained, “all because of some memory you can't place. I've seen this before, with another friend, but his situation wasn't nearly as remarkable as yours is. Clearly, you're done being a toy for the bad guys to throw targets at.” He took a breath, trying to wrangle his thoughts. “My point here is that if you want help, you've still got it.”

“I don't deserve it,” James stated. “I'm a killer. You shouldn't trust me.”

“I shouldn't trust a lot of people. Never stopped me from doing it.”

James just stared at him. For a while, neither of them did anything but look at each other, calculating and putting things together in their heads. Finally, James spoke again.

“You might want to lock me in somewhere,” he suggested. “If I'm unpredictable when I get out of cryo, I might just kill you waking up somewhere else. If you want to tie me down while you fix it, I won't object.”

“Noted,” Tony acknowledged. “Would you object to me bringing in a bit of help? To work on your arm, I mean,” he clarified when James cocked an eyebrow suspiciously. “I'm a genius when it comes to the tech, but this thing is half bone and muscle on the inside, at least by your shoulder. I've got a friend, a doctor who's good at keeping secrets.”

“Banner?” Barnes asked, shoving his real hand in his pocket. The other one was whirring and clicking in protest, so he didn't try to move it.

“Yeah,” Tony confirmed. “How'd you—”

“Read up on you before I showed up. I'm alright with your 'help.' You might even need his strength sometimes,” James allowed.

“If you hadn't shown up at—” Tony checked his watch, “—two fifty-three in the morning, I'd be awake enough to calm you down on my own.” He felt bad enough getting Bruce involved. No need for Hulk to make it more stressful.

Tony walked back towards James slowly, just close enough to reclaim his tablet from the concrete floor before he retreated again. “You look like you haven't slept in a week,” he said, collecting the files back onto his tablet. James stayed planted in one spot, either waiting for orders or too scared of himself to move.

“You say you should be locked up?” Tony continued, absently cleaning up after himself to kill time. “I've got a secure room two floors down, my own super-powered time out box. Should be able to hold you until you get your bearings.”

“Sounds good,” James muttered.

 

**Author's Note:**

> the "let's call him james" idea was planted in my head by [Dezi.](http://dezinformatsia.tumblr.com/)


End file.
